I am done for the week. The tank is dry. As is my throat: I did another hour-long walking tour around the lake (well, 45 minutes this time) and then a phone interview, and it left me parched. Can you guess what the phone interview concerned? The Main Street feature. Specifically, something I'd written about a town in New York. Apparently the local paper saw a spike in traffic due to a link on the Bleat, followed it backwards, and discovered the entry I did on their downtown. I'll post the interview link when it's up, if I remember, which is doubtful. I forget to post links to my own newspaper work.
As for the tour, it went well - but it almost had a glitch. For the last few days I've been ripping and sorting the "Ultra Lounge" CDs, as I noted before. The only reason I have the CDs is because they're so good looking. They fit in a rack in the closet. The jewel boxes have pieces of adhesive tape that mean a lot to me.
Like this:
See, in the old days, when we broadcast the Diner out of the transmitter studio, on the edge of town (or so I liked to think; it was anything but) we didn't have computers stuffed with FX and sounders. We had carts, which you jammed into a machine and then pushed a big button. A good board op could be quick with the carts, and have the standard drop-ins ready to roll. Tommy Mischke, whose show came on before mine, brought a trunk of carts and played them like a Spike Jones percussion concert; when I came in the studio after him, the carts were all over the floor, because he'd ripped them out and thrown them over his shoulder.
Me, I brought CDs for our bumper music. The Dark Chef, my producer, put them in the machine and potted them up when we came out of a break. I still have them, with the tape indicating the tracks I wanted to use.
Anyway. I also ripped the Christmas Cocktails CD, because I hadn't before. They'll probably go into the huge folder of music I have, but never listen to, because I don't like it much, but might need some day. For something. Whatever that could possibly be. When I ripped them they went into iTunes, and into the NEW playlist, and pushed out the Ole Bull Concerto excerpt I play when we get to his statue. It's a cool moment, hearing his music as he stands silent on his plinth. But now it was gone from the playlist - something I realized a few minutes before I had to leave to make the tour. So I threw the file into the Notes application, synced my phone, and figured I'd just play it from there.
Hey, better check this before I go . . .
Uh oh. It plays, but for reasons I could not fathom it trigged the Music app, which started playing some swank bongo piece I'd ripped and don't want. Made no sense. Couldn't disentangle them; whenever I played the Ole Bull piece in Notes, Music started playing the damned bongo piece. Gah. Have to go! Have to drive! Threw the file back in iTunes, synced, tested, ran.
But of course when I played it at the statue, it went right to the next piece, which was JINGLE BELLS. In August. In the park. Someone said:
"Jingle Bells?"
"I was, uh, ripping a CD of 40s Christmas music. As one is wont to do."
So that was my day. That, and seeing Daughter off for a weekend at a friend's cabin, filing a column, walking the dog twice, and chatting with the workmen.
Who are doing the bathroom.
Remember that? Remember that I was having the bathroom remodeled? It's still going on. Four and a half months now. At least. There was the plumbing problem; then there was the other problem; then there was the tile problem; then the contractor went to South America on a long-planned vacation; then the tile guy had a mild heart attack. It's endless. My nerves are shot - I can't stand another day of tarps on the stairs and guys in the backyard mixing stuff in buckets, but there are two weeks ahead, I fear.
This started when I saw the leak on the wall in February.
Hey, here's something I forgot to post this week. It's from Arby's.
Really. Outside the Arby's downtown are some old pictures of downtown. There are lots of those scattered around the skyway system - reminders of what downtown used to look like, when the streets were more interesting.
The main picture:
That's the New England Furniture & Carpet store. The main store was on Marquette, and there was a store on First Avenue. This location is new to me. Has to be Nicollet, according to the trolley.
Details:
Konitz. He sold hats. He was probably pretty proud of the sign, even though it cost a lot. Custom job, you know. They were all custom jobs.
Except for Dave's. That was off-the-shelf with a little tailoring around the name.
People say the skyways killed the street-level stores, but that wasn't the case. It helped. but it was the drain from the central core. Which has been reversed! Which leads us to . . .
Work on the hospital wing continues:
One more floor. In a month the view of the tower in the back will be obscured from downtown . . . FOREVER.
Back to music cues for "The Little Things in Life," Peg Lynch's last continuously running sitcom. The cues run from substandard 60s cues to cringingly 70s, and I'm surprised at how few there were. I think I'm already repeating what I previously played. In fact I know I'm already repeating the fact that I think I'm repeating myself, but on we go: this is the sound of narrative radio in its strange last gasp.
The most complete version of this cue I've heard. That opening part could go on forever . . .
into notes the human ear can't hear.
Same thing here: the entirety of the cue . . .
. . . almost. A bit missing from the start.
Another Casite ad, making engine additives snappy and beatnik-like.
Daddy-O
We continue with our August roadside Bob & Ray feature: Grand Motel.
"The song gained worldwide popularity through Dick Dale's 1962 American surf rock version, originally titled "Miserlou", which popularized the song in Western popular culture.
Jan August (born Jan Auggustoff 24 September 1904, New York City died 9 January 1976, New York City) was an American pianist and xylophonist. He had a hit with his version of "Misirlou" in 1947 with Carl Frederick Tandberg.
Hmm. Also:
In 1974, a musician calling himself Jan August played an extended engagement at St. Petersburg's La Ronda restaurant.[5] When a newspaper reporter for the St. Petersburg Times went to see him perform, she realized he did not look like Jan August and had a different musical style. She became suspicious and traced August through the musicians' union in New York City. August declined pressing charges, but indicated that his name could no longer be used by the other musician.
Seems fair.
I like Dick Dale, but this doesn't do much for me. In any version.
That'll do - see you around! Hope you enjoyed the week on the site.
